


The City at Night is Active and Alight

by WhouffleLover24



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Character Death, Christmas, Holmestice Winter 2018, I Tried, I really tried, M/M, Misunderstandings, doesn't mean I did well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 08:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16950498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhouffleLover24/pseuds/WhouffleLover24
Summary: The words spill out of his mouth, “Did I ever tell you what happened to my soulmate?”“No,” Sherlock rolls onto his side, “...’ssumed you didn’t wanna talk about it.”“I met him in Afghanistan. On Christmas.”“Interesting…”John looks to Sherlock to see one of his eyes his half opened, “Yeah… we promised to-,” John yawns, “-to meet each other next Christmas.”He feels Sherlock tense up next to him and he looks at Sherlock; confused. What was wrong?“What happened?”





	The City at Night is Active and Alight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gowerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet/gifts).



> Thank you to [Ariane Devere](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/) for their Sherlock transcripts. All canon dialogue is from them. Also, thank you to [Luthe](https://luthe.dreamwidth.org/) for being my beta. They dealt with my awkward rambling and this fic would be a lot worse without them.

 

* * *

 

_December 25th, 2008_

 

“The City at Night.”

 

John murmurs under his breath as he reads the neon-lit sign that was attached to the outside wall of the (non-alcoholic) bar.

 

The name was a bit generic, but nice, in a way.

 

John shifted the scarf that was covering his mouth and peered left, right, and made a mad dash into the entrance; making sure his hood covered most of his hair.

 

He hadn't ever indulged in something like this, but the thought of spending his third Christmas on base while most of his comrades were back with their families, wasn't appealing in the slightest.

 

He rushed to an empty corner of the room, where a small table and two chairs resided. Secluded, lonely, and perfect.

 

Grabbing the thin, paper menu with his gloved hands, John debated whether or not to order any drinks or food. On one hand, someone might notice him. On the other hand, wasn't eating and drinking something warm the point of his excursion?

 

In the end, he decided on a cup of tea and a plate of chips. Cheap enough so he could afford it, but also fathoms better than the rations he had on base.

 

The waiter sat down his food, “.دلته ستاسو خواړه ده” _Here’s your food._

 

John nodded, “.له تاسو مننه” _Thank you._

 

The waiter gave him an odd look, and John stared back before belatedly realizing that it was because of the scarf around John’s mouth. Which made him look a lot stranger, and a lot more suspicious than he wanted to be seen as.

 

He was momentarily frightened the waiter was going to say something to their manager, but his worries were appeased when the waiter just shrugged and turned away as a way to say, ‘I don’t get paid enough for this job to really care.’

 

John let out a rush of air in relief and turned to his cup of tea. He slipped the scarf off his mouth, and carefully, with two hands, grabbed the small cup and took a little sip. He exhaled a sigh of pleasure. It felt like it had been years since he had a proper cuppa. It most likely had been. Speaking of good food… John took a chip. Greasy, oily, thick, but hot, delicious, and reminded him of England.

 

He slowly ate his way through his plate of salty chips, a sip of his tea every now and then. He was nearing the end of his plate when a man -with ginger hair John noticed- sat right next to him.

 

At first, the other man didn't say anything, only stared at John for a few seconds before turning his back and looking at the rest of the room.

 

“Good evening.”

 

The man had a deep American accent, and at first, it had confused John. He didn't understand why, but it felt… off.

 

So, he did what any normal person would do: ignore the other man, and continue on with his plate of chips and a cup of tea.

 

But as he felt the other man’s eyes boring into his head, he realized that he should respond.

 

And regretfully, his response wasn't the most elegant, “Sorry? What? Do I know you?”

 

The other man shook his head, “Most likely not.”

 

“Then… why are you…?”

 

“Speaking to you?”

 

“Yeah, that.”

 

The other man shrugged, “Boredom, I guess. Waiting for someone.”

 

“Ohhh,” John nodded. He was beginning to understand, “your partner then?”

 

“No.” The man flashed his empty ring finger on his left hand. The place where a red ring would be if he had met his soulmate.

 

“Oh.” John furrowed his eyebrows, “your friend then?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you know them?”

 

“In a way.”

 

“In what way?”

 

“I know them, but I’m not planning to have a lovely chat with them today.”

 

“You know,” John only half-joked, “that sounds a lot like you're in the CIA or something, mate.”

 

“Oh god no,” the other man shook his head, “I would rather do anything than join the CIA or anything like it. When they meddle, all they do is cause chaos.”

 

John laughed. He didn't really understand what he liked about this man, but he couldn't deny that he didn't, “You know what mate? Against my better judgment, I like you. What's your name?”

 

The other man stared at him oddly for a hot second but it disappeared as he school his features, “I probably shouldn't say. People could hear me.”

 

“And you're absolutely _positive_ you aren't part of the CIA? Or MI6?”

 

The other man rolled his eyes, “I’m doing something that must involve absolute secrecy, but no. Not part of those organizations. I feel as if we’ve discussed this before.”

 

John held up his hands in mock surrender, “Alright, alright. Then what’s your, name?” he put finger quotes over the last word.

 

The other man thought about it for a season, “William Scott. But you may call me, William.”

 

“Ok, William,” John nodded, “I’m right to assume that isn’t actually your name?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Well then, William. I really can’t say my name either, as I’m technically not supposed to be here,” William raised an eyebrow in amusement, “but it's nice to meet you.” John slipped off the glove of his right hand and extended his arm out to William to shake.

 

William nodded and took John’s hand in one firm grip.

 

The effect was instant.

 

John gasped as he felt an -almost- electric spark run down from where their hands met, up his arm, and down to his left hand.

 

Immediately he let go and his hand flew to tear off the thin glove he had on.

 

His fourth finger, which had remained blank for all his life; now was decorated with a thin red pattern that circulated the base of his finger. He had met his _soulmate_.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

John gaped at his hand and then back at William in what John felt like was a good combination of shock, awe, and a bit of terror. And if William eyes and facial expression said anything, he was feeling it too.

 

William was the first one to speak, “I’m not quite sure if I’m right, but, maybe this is a good time to say that I’m not actually ginger. Or American.”

 

John stared at the other man in disbelief and broke into a giggle, albeit a little delirious, “Honestly, I guessed the second one.”

 

“You did?”

 

“Not many people from the States say ‘lovely chat.’”

 

William furrowed his eyebrows, “I guess that my disguise does need some work,” he sighed, “I’m from Britain if you want to know. Am I right to presume you're from there too?”

 

John nodded, “South London actually.”

 

“Ah, interesting,” William nodded, “I’m from South Wales, though I live in London.”

 

“Really?”

 

“What’s the point of me lying? I already told you I’m not from America.”

 

John raised his eyebrows and stared at him in disbelief, “What’s the point of lying about your appearance?”

 

“It’s for work!”

 

John paused; what line of work was this man -his soulmate-in. Should John be worried, “What do you for ‘work’?”

 

“I’m supposed to say I’m in Afghanistan temporarily as an airplane pilot, but I’m not one at all.”

 

“Then what are you?”

 

“I’m afraid that’s one major piece of information I certainly can’t share. My apologies.”

 

John frowned in minute disappointment, until an idea popped into his head, “That’s alright. Just something to look forward too.”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Well, we’re soulmates, we’re both only here temporarily, and we both have to leave soon. It would be nice if we could meet again, you know?”

 

John smiled nervously as he watched William think about it. His plan made sense, but, was he being too forward?

 

The not-red-head-but-red-headed man nodded with a thoughtful frown, “Yes, that would be. But when? And where?”

 

“How about next year on,” John paused to think about it, “Christmas Eve? That time is the easiest time for me to leave, but I still want to visit my sister on Christmas.”

 

William frowned, “A full year. That works. Where would you like to meet?”

 

John thought about it for a moment. He couldn't meet with his family, but he still wanted to go somewhere familiar to him. A place that felt like home.

 

“Somewhere in  London, maybe? How about St. Barts? Do you live near there?”

 

William was nodding slowly, “Yes, that would work.”

 

Yes! John smiled giddily and nodded, “Good. That's, that's good.”

 

William smiled shyly back and nodded, “Yes, I-I suppose it is.”

 

William raised his head and suddenly, John's eyes met his. William’s eyes, even in the dull yellow lighting, looked almost ethereal. Unreal. It was a bit silly, really, and also a bit preteen, but John felt like he could get lost in the depth of his eyes. Like if he could just-

 

_beep beep beep_

 

John jumped and looked down at his watch. Oh, it was already midnight. He had to get back to base.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Sorry, I completely lost track of time,” John shook his head while laughing softly, “I have to go, now.” He slipped his gloves back on and stood up. Looking back down at the table, he realized he hadn't paid yet.

 

“Shit!” John stuck his hands in his pockets and retrieved a few Afghani dollar bills worth a few British pounds. He stuffed them into William's hand with one other coin, “sorry. Ah, could you give those to the waiter, please? I’m so sorry, but I really must go. I hope you find whoever you came here for.”

 

William pocketed the bills (John frowned in confusion, but immediately forgot about it), “I will. And Thank You. I hope I find them too.”

 

John nodded and took a deep breath, “So,” John smiled at William, “next year? At St. Barts?”

 

“We need a time” William added, “how about midnight?”

 

“Will do.” John stood up.

 

“And you will tell me your name, right?”

 

John nodded, “And you’ll tell me yours?”

 

“Of course.”

 

John smiled one last time at William and tried to embed his face into his memory. He slipped the scarf over his mouth again, “Goodbye, William. If all goes well, I’ll see you next year.”

 

“I look forward to it.”

 

“So do I.” John waved goodbye one last time and he speed-walked out the door and into the hot winter air. He felt a stupid smile grow on his face.

 

He didn't care.

 

_December 30th, 2008_

 

 

 

 

 

> **Bombing at “The City at Night”**
> 
>  
> 
> Sara Fahmy, Assignment Reporter
> 
>  
> 
> “Afghanistan Times Daily” (Translated    
> 
>      by Adam Hammad )
> 
> Tuesday, Dec 30th, 2008
> 
>  
> 
> TUESDAY AFTERNOON- “The City at Night” has crumbled due to the combustion of multiple bombs. There have been five injured, and three known deaths. Their reported names were William Scott, Taimar Nabi, and Mahvash Abboud. As of now, not much is known on how or what happened, but city officials are looking into the bombing.
> 
>  

_December 31st, 2008_

 

When night falls, John holds the _Afghanistan Times Daily_ in his right hand and stares at the red soulmate mark on his finger. No one dares to ask him why.

 

_February 2nd, 2009_

 

John Watson gets shot.

 

It's an all-fiery searing pain from his shoulder that burns down his body. He can feel the rough sand against his back and the sun beating down on his face. He doesn't think he’ll live. It sure doesn't feel like it.

 

And in what must be his final moments, he hopes that, maybe, he’ll see _him_ again.

 

_January 29th, 2010_

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

“What-sorry-?”

 

“Which was it,” the man repeats, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

John stares at the man in the middle of the room, bewildered, “Afghanistan, sorry. How did you-”

 

“How do you feel about the violin? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

 

“Oh you,” John turns to Mike, confused, “you told him about me?”

 

Mike smiles in a mysterious way, “Not a word.”

 

John scrunches his eyebrows, “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

 

“I did,” the man picks up his coat and puts it on, “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, back from the military.”

 

“But wouldn’t your…” John nods down to the man’s left ring finger, where a visible red circumcised it at the bottom. Not that he minded, or was bitter about the other man finding his soulmate (ok, maybe he was, but that was no one’s business), but he was mainly concerned that he was walking into a situation that he really didn’t want to deal with.

 

“My what?” Cold blue eyes met his, a John felt a prickle at the back of his neck, and a bit more confusion.

 

“Your-,” John paused. He was sure the other man knew what he was talking about, so there had to be a reason why he seemed so defensive about it, “never mind.”

 

The other man nods as if to say, ‘that’s right,’ “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together, we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, at 7 o’clock. Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

 

Wait, riding crop, mortuary- what was he getting himself into?

 

The other man starts to walk towards John, and hold on a second, is he _leaving_? “Is that it?”

 

“Is that what?” The other man pauses.

 

“We’ve only just met, and we’re going to go and look at a flat?”

 

“Problem?”

 

John smiles awkwardly and a bit in disbelief, “We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”

 

The other man stops and studies John, his eyes running up and down John, “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic. More likely because he recently walked out on his soulmate, and you’re bitter because you lost your own soulmate. And last but not least, I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

 

John looks down at his cane, the red circle on his ring finger, and back at the other man in a mix of amazement and absolute confoundment.

 

“That’s enough to go on, don’t you think?” The other man smiles smugly and continues his saunter out the door, but pauses right before his head leaves the room, “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!” And with a wink, the other man is gone.

 

John gazes at the door and then at Mike, silently questioning what the hell had just happened.

 

“Yeah,” Mike smiles smugly, “he’s always like that.”

 

And with that statement, John’s left in a perplexed state of mind. He’s always like what? Dramatic? An arsehole? Strange? Brilliant?

 

Wait, where did that last thought come from?

 

John didn’t want to dwell on it.

 

\----------------------

 

That night, John sits in front of his laptop and thinks.

 

Did he want to become flatmates with this so-called Sherlock Holmes? He seemed dangerous, mysterious, and trouble. Exactly the things Ella thought he should avoid when he moved back to London. Exactly the things anyone else would avoid.

 

John clicked on the search bar and started typing: _Sherlock Holmes_.

 

_January 30th, 2010_

 

It has barely been 24 hours since John Watson has met Sherlock Holmes, and John has come up with three things.

 

Number one, Sherlock Holmes is the most annoying man he has ever met.

 

Number two, Sherlock Holmes is also simultaneously the most brilliant man he’s ever met. He has not only solved a murder in a few hours but also cured his limp.

 

And number three, he, for no reason he can explain, has killed a man for Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock gives him an odd look, “Are you alright?”

 

John unintentionally stands a bit straighter, “Yes, of course, I’m alright.”

 

“Well, you have just killed a man.”

 

“Yes I,” John tried to come up with a discernible excuse; except, he did kill a man, didn’t he? “that’s true, innit. But, he wasn’t a very nice man.”

 

Sherlock nods, “No. No, he wasn’t really.”

 

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie too.”

 

Sherlock laughs and John feels eased at the sound, “That’s true. He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!”

 

They both giggle like children on a playground, and John half-heartedly chides Sherlock, “Stop! We can't giggle, it's a crime scene,” John finds himself and Sherlock giggling some more, “Stop it!”

 

They don't stop. And yeah, Sergeant Donovan looks at them with an offended expression, and yeah, Sherlock is a bit of a prat who doesn't take mistakes very well, and has many enemies, and ok, yeah, Mycroft, ( _Sherlock’s brother!_ ) has got to be the creepiest older brother he’s ever met. But it doesn't phase John one bit.

 

Was Sherlock Holmes everything he _should_ avoid? Yes.

 

Did John care? Hell no.

 

_March 28th, 2010_

 

“This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?”

 

John wants to wince as the words fall out of his mouth. He doesn't want to do this, God he’d do anything not to but he can't forget about the bomb.

 

“John,” Sherlock says slowly, looking confused and bewildered, “what the hell-”

 

“Bet you never saw this coming.” His heart breaks a little at the sight of Sherlock's despair, and he opens his coat to reveal the bomb.

 

“What, would you like me,” John pauses as the other man through the earphone pauses, “to make _him_ say, next?”

 

Sherlock slowly makes his way to him and John cringes as he hears the tinny voice through his earpiece, “Gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer,” John chokes a bit, “gottle o’ geer.” _Stop it, stop it_ -

 

“Stop it!” Sherlock sounds angry and a bit desperate as he searches the area behind John. John’s left-hand throbs.

 

“Nice touch, this, the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him,” John's heart rate shoots through the roof, “I can stop John Watson, too.” He looks down as the next words are spoken, “Stop his heart.”

 

Sherlock’s looking around frantically, “Who are you?”

 

“I gave you my number. I thought you might call.”

 

John doesn't want to remember any more from _the Pool_.

 

_March 29th, 2010_

 

John wakes up in the middle of the night, (which was probably 6 AM) groggy and sleep-addled. The air in the room is cold, and he shivers and pulls his blanket tighter. He expects to meet soft cotton, but instead, he feels something smoother, and less soft. Almost like skin.

 

_Wait, what?_

 

He pulls his eyelids apart and peers his head up. It's Sherlock. Sleeping next to him.

 

“Sherlock, what-?” he grumbles and tries to twist his body, but finds out he can't.

 

What the-

 

He looks down at his body to find Sherlock's arm and legs wrapped around him like an octopus, keeping him in place.

 

Maybe he should've woken Sherlock up. They were only friends and all, and friends definitely didn’t sleep in the same bed. But John’s bed had felt so cold last night and Sherlock was so warm and John was so comfortable; five more minutes couldn’t hurt…

\----------------------

 

When he wakes up in the morning (at 11 o’clock) Sherlock is gone from his bed, and he can hear the clatter of experiments from downstairs. He assumes it was just a dream.

 

_August 18th, 2010_

 

“Have you ever thought about going ginger?”

 

Sherlock turns from his lying place on the couch, “Why would I dye my hair, ginger? I would never dye my hair any color, let alone _ginger_.”

 

“Oh come on!” John teases, “I think it might look good on you!”

 

“John. _Really_? You only can up with that idea because of that one case. What was it… oh, yes! It was, ‘Red-Headed League!’ Another terrible title of yours, of course.”

 

“Oi!” John frowned, “I liked that title!”

 

Sherlock gesticulated in frustration, “The case was about a baseball coach luring a group of unaware red-headed players into participating in a plot to distract from a bank robbery!”

 

“Yes! Baseball? League?”

 

“That wasn’t the point of the case!”

 

“But it was creative! I couldn’t have called it, ‘Naive Red-Headed Baseball Players’ could I? You have to give me some creativity credit!”

 

Sherlock groaned, “Fine, yes. I concede. It was creative. It was hardly scientific, nor did it illuminate the actual process, but yes, it was _creative_.”

 

John shrugged, “I’ll take it.” He was choosing his battles, and he had a feeling he wasn't going to win this one, “and anyway, that isn't the only reason I thought of you on ginger hair. I also just simply thought it would look-”

 

Sherlock holds up his hand and John scowls, “I don't want to know why else you thought it, because I’m not going to dye my hair ginger. The first time was-” Sherlock freezes.

 

John’s jaw drops, “So you have dyed your hair ginger before!”

 

Sherlock groans, “It was for a case.”

 

“A case?”

 

“Yes! I had to go undercover as a pilot! Happy?” Sherlock stubbornly turns his back to John.

 

John laughs, “Oh my gosh. Do you have pictures? Mycroft has got to have pictures! I need to ask him for those!”

 

“I doubt Mycroft would be willing to if there are any pictures, to begin with. It was an undercover, _confidential_ case.”

 

John smiles mischievously, “I’m willing to bet there’s at least one.”

 

“Oh please. Where are you getting your evidence? Conclusions based on guesses are little to never correct.”

 

“My evidence is that your,” John points at Sherlock, even though he knows Sherlock can’t see him, “brother is a meddling arsehole.”

 

Sherlock harrumphs and John smiles in triumph, “So you agree!”

 

“I hate you.”

 

\----------------------

 

John ended up asking Mycroft for a picture who, unfortunately, denied him access to any. But hey. Who said he still didn’t have a chance?

 

_December 21st, 2010_

 

John sits in his chair and reads the newspaper, as Sherlock play the violin in front of the window.

 

“So,” John flips the page, “I should probably tell you that I’m going to Harry’s on the 24th.”

 

The playing doesn’t stop, but he hears a hum from Sherlock.

 

“Are you doing anything?”

 

Sherlock puts down his violin to rosin his bow, “For what?”

 

“Christmas.”

 

Sherlock stares at him in confusion for a bit, “Christmas? Why would I do anything for Christmas? I’m not religious.”

 

John shrugged, “I’m not either. But it's still nice to stay with family. Or friends.”

 

“But why would I celebrate it?” Sherlock scowled, “It’s not as if I’ve got many friends or family.”

 

“Your brother?”

 

“You’re properly insane if you think I’ll spend one more second with Mycroft then I have to.”

 

“Your parents?”

 

“Have you _seen_ the Christmas dinners?”

 

“How about,” he barely restrains himself from saying, _‘How about me?’_

 

“How about… Molly? No, actually, you might ruin her reputation even more.”

 

Sherlock seems to ignore the jab and continues to look out the window.

 

John tries again, “How about… Lestrade?”

 

“Really?”

 

“Look,” John flails his arms, “I don't know who you're friends with, but there's got to be _someone_ , hasn't there?”

 

“Well there's you, but you're not exactly going to be here, are you?”

 

John feels a little bit flattered, but he groans in exasperation, “Someone else!”

 

With a flash, Sherlock spins around and John’s back is being pressed against his chair by Sherlock’s bow on his chest, “There. Is. No. One. Else.” Each word is punctuated with a thrust of the bow again his chest, “Do. You. Understand?”

 

John looks Sherlock straight in the eye, and instead of saying ‘yes,’ he says,

“No.”

 

He immediately wants to smack himself in the face.

 

Sherlock snaps around and throws his bow on the ground.

 

“Why do I even try? Of course, you wouldn't get it!” Sherlock pulls on his hair and stalks to his bedroom.

 

Right before he reaches the door, John speaks. In for a penny, in for a pound, “You know, Christmas can also be a time to make amends with people. People who can be… important to you.”

 

“Are you implying something?” Sherlock’s voice is hard.

 

“No,” John picks up his newspaper again, “I just thought you should know.”

 

“I don’t need to.” And with that, the bedroom door slams shut.

 

_November 20th, 2011_

 

John shook with fury, “ You need to ...? Doesn’t she mean _anything_ to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her.”

 

Sherlock shrugs, and John can feel his fury intensify, “She’s just my landlady.”

 

“She’s dying!” John hisses between his teeth, “you _machine_ !” What was Sherlock doing? Why was Sherlock doing it? He valued Mrs. Hudson so much, but wouldn’t go to her aid when she could’ve been _dying_?

 

But then, it hit him. Sherlock hadn’t ever changed, had he? John had been living for the past few months, assuming that Sherlock was changing. Just a little by little, even. But this; this showed he really hadn’t, “Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want; on your _own_.”

 

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

 

“No.” John grips the door handle tighter and he can feel his left ring finger throb, “Friends protect people.”

 

\----------------------

 

“ Is everything okay now with the police? Has Sherlock sorted it all out?”

 

“Oh my god.”

 

_November 23rd, 2011_

 

The funeral’s over, and everyone has left. Except for John.

 

He stands in front of Sherlock's coffin and skims his fingers across the top of it. The wooden lid is smooth and cold.

 

John clenches his eyes shut and squeezes his hand into fists. Sherlock's death hurts more than William’s death does. Which, in a way, makes sense. He hisses a shaky breath between his teeth and feels a sharp pain in his left hand and he looks down at it. His soulmate mark seems to be brighter.

 

He laughs at the irony of it.

 

He hears the doors of the chamber open, but he stays in his spot and doesn’t turn around.

 

Light footsteps echo through the large room and off the wooden columns. The footsteps stop right behind him. A soft hand lands on his shoulder.

 

“John, we have to go. The cab is waiting for us.”

 

He looks back at Mrs. Hudson and nods, “Yeah,” his voice is raspy, “yeah.”

 

He takes one last good look at the closed coffin and lets Mrs. Hudson guide him out the door.

 

_December 21st, 2011_

 

John meets a woman. She just started working at the clinic less than a month ago and is sweet, funny, witty, polite, and very respectable. She’s everything Sherlock was not. Sherlock was everything she isn’t.

 

Her name’s Mary Morstan.

 

_January 27th, 2012_

 

“Are you sure, you’re ok with this Mary?” John fiddles with his hands and looks down at the red mark on this left hand.

 

Mary looks up from her food from across the table, “Ok with that?”

 

“My- my,” John motioned uselessly to his left hand, “-you know. The fact that I’ve- we’re not-”

 

Mary smiles sweetly and reaches her left arm across the table to grab his left hand; revealing her own soulmate mark on her left hand, “Oh John. Of course, I don’t mind. If I did, it would be rather hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?”

 

“I know. It’s just- what if this…”

 

“Doesn’t work?”

 

John nods, “Yes. Exactly.”

 

“Then we’ll take what comes. I know you might never really get over your old soulmate, and as long as you can understand that I might not ever get over mine,” John nods, “then who cares if we’re not ‘soulmates, soulmates?’”

 

John nods in relief. He was sure that his soulmate mark was going to throw off Mary. It had thrown off all his other girlfriends. To be honest, he’d never thought he could ever have one date with her; let alone three. But Mary knew what it felt like to lose someone that close to you. But most of all, she was perfect for him.

 

\----------------------

 

He probably should’ve known the peace wasn’t going to last.

 

_October 30th, 2013_

 

John shifts in his seat, and plays with the small black box. He’s going to propose to Mary.

 

Yeah, she wasn’t William. She wasn’t Sherlock either. But they both loved each other for who they were, and who they were alone. Didn't that mean more?

 

“Can I ‘elp you with anything, sir?”

 

_October 31st, 2013_

 

John is absolutely seething. How could Sherlock? How could he do this to Mrs. Hudson? To _him_?

 

Mary places a hand on John’s arm, who’s sitting on the couch, clenching his fist, “Look, there could’ve been a reason.”

 

“But why?” John growls, “what possible reason could that dick have now?!”

 

“I don’t know, but there has to be something.”

 

John rolls his eyes, “Yeah. A likely story.”

 

Silence falls upon the both of them and John can't take it anymore. He buries his face into his hands and he lets out a wet sob. God, he can't believe what Sherlock did.

 

Mary hugs John from the side, “I’m sorry, John. I really am.”

 

_November 4th, 2013_

 

John slowly wakes up, and his head is foggy.

 

Where the hell is he?

 

What just happened?

 

He tries to recall what happened.

 

_Walking down the street, seeing 221B, a man runs into him, a sharp sting…_

 

John’s heartbeat shoots through the roof.

 

He can tell he’s trapped in a small enclosed area. And with what he can tell, he might be in a cell. Or something, as he can see tiny slits of light in his space.

 

He reaches up and feels wood. Wood. That’s easier to break through.

 

He tries to break through but finds the wood branches too heavy. He reaches into his pockets to find something sharp but groans when he can’t feel anything.

 

He collapses onto the ground again and tries to think. The ceiling is thinner than the bottom, it’s made up of wood, and he can hear the chatter of people. They all sound relaxed, or even excited, even though there’s a man being captured right next to them.

 

He coughs; the air seems to be thicker, like if there’s smoke filling up the air.

 

As if he’s in a bonfire.

 

But it can’t be, right? There’s no way, _right_?

 

He sees the spark of wood before he feels it. John’s eyes widen in horror as he watches the fire spread up the wood.

 

“Help!”

 

_Please Sherlock, please Sherlock, please Sherlock_

 

_May 16th, 2014_

 

John can feel the sharp edges of the stairs, as Sherlock and he collapses on top of them.

 

“I have an international reputation,” he hears Sherlock slur, “Do you have an international reputation?”

 

John shifts sleepily. His head is heavy, and he wonders what they were doing before this, “No, I don’t have an international reputation.”

 

“No,” Sherlock slurs approvingly, “And I can’t even remember what for. Sss.. crime… something or... other.”

 

John giggles drunkenly and he looks down at his left hand, trying to check the time. Instead of the time, he sees the red circle on his ring finger. “Sherlock?”

 

“Hmmm?”

 

The words spill out of his mouth, “Did I ever tell you what happened to my soulmate?”

 

“No,” Sherlock rolls onto his side, “...’ssumed you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

 

“I met him in Afghanistan. On Christmas.”

“Interesting…”

 

John looks to Sherlock to see one of his eyes his half opened, “Yeah… we promised to-,” John yawns, “-to meet each other next Christmas.”

 

He feels Sherlock tense up next to him and he looks at Sherlock; confused. What was wrong?

 

“What happened?”

 

“He died.”

 

“Oh.”

 

John giggles. He feels hysterical, high, yet also feels like the weight of worlds is on his chest. He giggles again. He doesn’t want to think about it, “His name was Scott...no… Scott William? No, no, no, no, no, it was William Scott. Wish I could meet him again, ya know,” John lets out another high-pitched giggle, “But, I’m getting married so,” He shrugs, “Guess it doesn’t matter, does it?”

 

He looks up at Sherlock again and sees Sherlock’s eyes wide, and his shoulders seem tense,

“Whazz wrong?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head, “No, no, just… thinking.”

 

John is about to ask what Sherlock was thinking about, but then he hears the door open.

 

“Ooh! What are you doing back? I thought you were going to be out late?”

 

“Ah, Hudders!” Sherlock calls out, and John has forgotten Sherlock’s weird mood, “What time is it?”

 

Mrs. Hudson takes a look at her watch, “You’ve only been out two hours.”

 

They both yawn and try to stand up, but they slip, and Sherlock slips onto the next stair.

 

John smiles and a rush of affection runs through him. Something almost like… he doesn’t know. He frankly feels too lightheaded to care.

 

He pulls Sherlock up, and they both make the slow ascend up to their -no not _their-_ Sherlock’s flat.

 

_October 15th, 2014_

 

John rushes out of the hospital and takes a cab back to Baker Street.

 

_Who shot Sherlock Holmes?_

 

It's a thought that has been plaguing him for the last two days when he found Sherlock bleeding out on the ground of Magnussen's office. Only a millimeter away from death, and, oh god, what would happen if Sherlock had died? What would John do? What would-

 

He collapses against the back of the cab back seat. No, he can't think about that right now. What he has to think about is his just going back to Baker Street and getting a few of Sherlock’s things.

 

Mary suggested it; saying that Sherlock was going to need something to entertain him and that John needed to, ‘ _take a break from all the white walls. I’ll call you if the doctor has news on Sherlock, alright? You go and relax for a bit, ok?_ ’

 

When the cab stops, he pays in full amount, (he thinks about all the times he’s thrown money at a cab driver when on cases with Sherlock and smiles ruefully) and climbs out; coming face to…door with 221B Baker Street.

 

He walks up the few stairs and reaches into his pockets in pure routine, surprised to find a small key still in his pocket; still there after the chaos of the last few days. The keys to 221B Baker Street.

 

Carefully, he inserted the key into the lock and stepped inside. He knows Mrs. Hudson isn’t in, as he just saw her at the hospital, so he skips his usual hello to Mrs. Hudson and and climbs up into his old flat.

 

Opening the door with his left hand, he steps inside, and turns into the hall, where Sherlock’s bedroom resides at the end of. It’s been such a long time since he’s been inside.

 

He reaches out to the slightly ajar door and pushes inside.

 

The room is different from the last time he has seen it. The bed is rumpled (most likely because of Janine and him doing… things he doesn’t really want to think about), some of the pictures that Sherlock had are gone, and the bedsheets are a different color. But the beloved Judo certificate and Periodic Table of Elements picture are still there.

 

_What would Sherlock want?_

 

Maybe books?

 

He sees a couple of thin bookshelves in the corner next to a lamp and he decides to take a look there.

 

“‘ _Criminal Poisoning_ ’, ‘ _Forensic DNA Typing_ ’, ‘ _A Brief History of Time,_ ’” John reads out the book titles as he pulls a few out that he thinks that Sherlock might enjoy reading. He sets the three books down and reaches blindly for another book, but pauses as he feels a flimsy surface. He frowns and looks at what he’s just grabbed. It’s a grainy photo of a man. John rejoices and he thinks he’s found a photo of a ginger Sherlock. (Hah! He knew he would find it at some point!)

 

But then John pauses, and takes a closer at the picture. He can tell the man is tall, ginger, with a weirdly familiar grainy face.

 

John freezes. Even after six years, John has never forgotten that face. It’s not Sherlock, it’s William.

 

At first, he feels a small joy at seeing his dead soulmate again. His next emotion is absolute bafflement. Why did Sherlock have a photo of his dead soulmate?

 

He stares at the photo of William before putting it back on the shelf, at the bottom of the stack of books. Standing up, he picks up the stack of books, grabs Sherlock’s dressing gown. and plans to walk straight out of the room. But, right before he walks out the door; he breaks. He walks back to the shelf and takes a picture with his mobile before he can rethink his decision.

 

He smiles down at the photo on his phone and promptly runs out of the room.

 

_October 17th, 2014_

 

“John, listen. Be calm and answer me. What is she?”

 

John grits his teeth, “My lying wife.”

 

“No. What is she?”

 

“The woman who’s carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her?”

 

“No. Not in _this_ flat, not in _this_ room. Right here, right now, what is she?”

 

His life keeps collapsing right in front of his eyes. Just as he thinks he has a grasp on it, it slips from between his fingers, like grains of sand.

 

And Sherlock keeps being so _irritatingly_ patient, it makes John want to scream himself hoarse. To scream until he doesn’t think of anything else.

 

Instead, he listens.

 

He fixes a tight smile and turns to Sherlock, “Ok. Your way. Always your way,” he turns to Mary, “Sit.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because that’s where _they_ sit. The people who come in here with their stories. The clients- that’s all _you_ are now, Mary,” he spits out her name, “You’re a _client_. This is where you sit and talk, and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not.”

 

_December 23rd, 2014_

 

“So; Sherlock’s going to his parents for Christmas huh?” Lestrade laughs and takes a sip of his pint, “Never thought I’d see the day when the twat actually celebrated.”

 

John laughs, “Yeah neither can I. He seemed to never understand the meaning of what Christmas was; or family. I wonder if he’s always been like that.”

 

Lestrade sets down his pint, and his smile falters, “Well, actually, he hasn’t.”

 

“Wait, really?”

 

“He only adopted that kind of thinking about eight-ish years ago.”

 

John frowned, “What happened?”

 

Lestrade rubbed his face with his hands, “It has to do with his soulmate?”

 

“What do you mean?” John knew that this was a sort of invasion of privacy, but he had wanted to know what happened with Sherlock’s soulmate for years.

 

“I’m not quite sure what the whole story is, but Sherlock’s soulmate had apparently promised they’d meet Sherlock somewhere on that next Christmas Day. But when Sherlock went…”

 

The realization dawned on John, “...they didn’t show up.”

 

Lestrade nodded grimly.

 

“That’s terrible!”

 

“I didn’t know what happened, that Christmas. One year, he was fine with the Holidays, the next, he shunned and cut it out of his life.”

 

John stared in shock, “How did I not know this?”

 

“Sherlock doesn’t share those kinds of things. His brother told me.”

 

“Wait, you know Mycroft?”

“Yeah.”

 

“Huh,” John furrowed his eyebrows, “he didn’t tell me.”

 

Lestrade shrugged, “Maybe he didn’t want you to know?”

 

“But why?”

 

“I-I don’t know, mate. Sorry about that.”

 

John frowned, “Huh.”

 

_December 27th, 2014_

 

John stands in front of Sherlock on the tarmac, as the plane stands behind Sherlock. The wind tussles his hair.

 

“So, here we are.”

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

 

John looks up at Sherlock, “Sorry?”

 

“That’s the whole of it- if you’re looking for baby names.”

 

John laughs and shakes his head, “No, we’ve had a scan. We’re pretty sure it’s a girl.”

 

“Oh,” and Sherlock gives John a shy smile that makes John’s heart swell with things he doesn’t want to think about, “ok.”

 

They both stand in silence, and John tries not to think that this is the last time in a very long time that they will talk.

 

“Yeah, actually, I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

 

“No, neither can I.”

 

John looks down and then looks back up. “The game is over.” His voice has gone rough.

 

Sherlock’s head lifts up and he meets John’s eyes, “The game is never over, John, but there may be some new players now. It’s okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end.”

  
East Wind? “What’s that?”

 

“It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth,” Sherlock smiles humorlessly, “that was generally me.”

 

John raises his eyebrows, “Nice.”

 

“He was a rubbish big brother.”

 

John giggles weakly and looks down, “So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?”

 

“Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.”

 

“And then what?”

 

Sherlock shrugs, “Who knows?”

 

Somehow, John knows this is definitely the last time he will ever talk to Sherlock.

 

“John, there’s something ... I should say. I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have,” What is Sherlock saying? “Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now,” John's eyes widen as Sherlock speaks. Could it be…?

 

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

 

And John laughs from the whiplash; the words are so different than the words he wished Sherlock would say. The words he knows Sherlock would never say- could never say, even if he meant it.

 

“It's not.”

 

“It was worth a try.”

 

John shakes his head, “We’re not naming our daughter after you.”

 

Sherlock smiles, “I think it could work.”

 

John giggles and watches Sherlock take off his left glove and lifts out his hand. (It's odd, as the proper handshake etiquette is with your right hand, but John doesn't mind.)

 

John stares at the hand. Should he take it? Or should he hug him? Or would that be too much?

 

He takes Sherlock’s hand and they shake. Sherlock’s firm grip encompassing his whole hand.

 

They shake one last time, and he looks down at Sherlock's left hand, where his soulmate mark is still visible. John doesn’t think about why that mark is so special to him. Even after all these years of knowing it was there.

 

Sherlock let’s go, and then he’s off on his way to the plane.

 

Mary walks towards him and grabs his hand. John grabs back as if he’s hanging onto the last person who he loves. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

 

_“Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?”_

 

_January 6th, 2016_

 

John stands in front of Sherlock, and he takes a breath that fills his lungs to the brim.

 

“You didn’t kill Mary.”

 

Sherlock’s head snaps up, and he looks surprised.

 

“Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No-one made her do it. No-one could ever make her do anything,” he pauses to smile, “but the point is; you didn’t kill her.”

 

Sherlock looks down, “In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend.”

 

It’s a rare view of Sherlock’s sentimentality, and John looks away.

 

“It is what it is.”

 

\----------------------

 

“I mean, how does it work?”

 

“How does _what_ work.”

 

“You and the Woman. Do you go to a discreet Harvester sometimes?” he laughs humorlessly,  “Is there a night of passion in High Wycombe?”

 

Sherlock groans, “Oh, for God’s sake. I don’t text her back.”

 

“Why not?” John takes a step back, and a rush of… something… runs through him. _Irene and Sherlock, of_ course _, it is._

 

“Oh, you bloody moron!”

 

Sherlock looks bewildered.

 

“She’s _out_ there, she _likes_ you,” John pauses, “and she’s _alive_ . And do you have the first idea how _lucky_ you are?”

 

Sherlock avoids his gaze, and John can feel anger rising, like a tidal wave, “Yes, she’s a lunatic, she’s a criminal, she’s _insanely_ dangerous. Trust you to fall for a sociopath.” John almost laughs at his own hypocrisy. Marrying an ex-assassin, falling for Sherlock, and all, “ but she’s… you know.“

 

“What?”

 

“Just text her back.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because High Wycombe is better than you are currently equipped to understand.”

 

Sherlock frowns, “I once caught a triple poisoner in High Wycombe.”

 

John smiles sadly, “That’s only the beginning, mate.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “As I think I have explained to you _many_ times before, romantic entanglement while fulfilling for other people-”

 

“-would complete you as a human being.”

 

“That doesn’t even mean anything.”

 

John closes his eyes, “Just text her. Phone her. Do _something_ while there’s still a chance because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me, Sherlock, it’s gone before you know it. Before you know it.” And John isn’t sure if he’s talking about Mary anymore.

 

Oh. Mary.

 

“She was wrong about me.”

 

Sherlock frowns, “Mary? How so?”

 

John shakes his head, “She thought that if you put yourself in harm’s way I’d ... I’d rescue you or something. But I didn’t. Not until she told me to. And that’s how this works. That’s what you’re missing. She taught me to be the man she already thought I was. Get yourself a piece of that.” _Get yourself someone I can never be._

 

“Forgive me, but you are doing yourself a disservice. I have known many people in this world but made few friends, and I can safely say-”

 

“I cheated on her.”

 

Sherlock abruptly stops.

 

John smiles grimly, “No clever comeback?”

 

Silence echoes through the flat.

 

“I cheated on you, Mary.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t speak.

 

And John tells her. He tells Sherlock, too. And it hurts- it hurts realizing over and over again what he’s done. What he did.

 

He doesn’t talk about what he knows about Sherlock. He also doesn’t talk about what he wished he could’ve felt for Mary. He’s not sure if he should.

 

“Who you thought I was,” John’s vaguely realized that he’s started to talk to Mary, instead of Sherlock, “is the man who I _want_ to be.” The man he can’t be.

 

_Well, then, John Watson; get the hell on with it._

 

John chokes and he can feel the tears well in his eyes.

 

“It’s okay.” John feels the pressure of Sherlock’s arms around him before he realizes that Sherlock is… Sherlock is hugging him. He leans into Sherlock’s chest like a lifeline.

 

“It’s _not_ okay.”

 

“No. But it is what it is.”

 

_May 28th, 2016_

 

They’re sat across from each other in their respective (blackened) armchairs. 221B around them has crumbled walls, the floors are covered in debris, and their both waiting for the cleaning service.  Sherlock’s drinking a cup of coffee from Speedy’s, and John’s twiddling a pen in his hand.

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

 

Sherlock frowns from his cup of coffee, “Yes?”

 

“ _William_ Sherlock _Scott_ Holmes.”

 

“Yes…? That _is_ my… name. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

 

John huffs. Of course, Sherlock wouldn’t get it, “William Scott.”

 

“Would you mind not mentioning those parts of my name? There’s a reason why I tend to use ‘Sherlock Holmes’, and not, ‘William Sherlock Scott Holmes.’”

 

John shakes his head, “ _No_ . You’re not getting it. _William Scott_. That was the name of my soulmate.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widen, but takes a sip of his coffee, “Interesting; but if you’re trying to say that my parents named half of my name after a person who might’ve not even been born, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

 

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. John takes it as a cue to continue.

 

“I saw the photo on your bookshelf. The photo of William. For a long time, I had no idea why you had a photo of him. Until I realized. It was _you_ . William Scott was _you_.”

 

Sherlock puts down his coffee and stares at the ground.

 

John leans back, “Of course, I couldn’t figure it out on my own; Lestrade had to help me. I was a bit slow, I admit. But, I did get it, eventually.”

 

Sherlock looks down at his lap, “What do you want me to say?”

 

“How long have you known?”

 

Sherlock bites his lip and looks away, “Your stag night. You told me how you met your soulmate.”

 

“I did?”

 

“Well, you were intoxicated, I admit- so you didn’t really tell me so much as you prattled on about it.”

 

“And you knew? For two years?”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

“And do you…love...?’’

 

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice is quite as he confesses an enormous truth.

 

“Oh, god,” John rubbed his face, “What the hell do we do now?”

 

“We could... ignore it...?”

 

“What the-” he takes a deep shuddering breath, “Sherlock that’s not a solution to this. You can't- _we_ can't-”

 

Sherlock’s head snaps up and he glares at John, “Do you think I actually want to do that?”

 

“Then why are you suggesting it?”

 

“Because that's the only thing we can do! It’s not as if you haven’t faired just fine without knowing!”

 

John stood up and flails his arms, “But-”

 

“And you are also in no way prepared for any sort of romantic relationship!”

 

“You can’t just-”

 

“And finally, you are not gay-”

 

“Shut up!”

 

There was silence.

 

John looked down and clenched his fists, “You can’t keep trying to decide my own life for me; let alone my own love life, or my own sexuality! Can’t you just let me decide something on my own?”

 

Sherlock slumped back in his seat, and resembled someone who had been truly defeated, “I thought you would be happy with Mary. I just- I just wanted you to be happy. That’s all I ever tried to do," he laughs but it sounds lifeless.

 

It triggers an awareness in John. Everything that Sherlock had been doing, while it seemed selfish, or manipulative on the surface, it was just Sherlock trying to help him. It gave John an inner look into Sherlock’s heart. It suddenly makes John feel like an arsehole. All along Sherlock had been helping and he’d been constantly accusing him and belittling him.

 

“Oh god. We’re a mess, Sherlock. You tried to give me the things you thought I wanted, but all I really wanted is you,” he groans, “what are we _doing_?”

 

“I don’t have any idea more than you .”

 

They both sit and stand in silence.

 

Neither knowing what they were doing, or what to say next.

 

“What if we try?” John suggests, and Sherlock peers up at John, “I… I want to try, Sherlock. Do you?”

 

“Yes. I would- I would be amenable to that.” Sherlock gives him a shaky smile.

 

John gives him an equally shaky smile, “Trying.”

 

_December 25th, 2018_

 

John holds out a dotted red Christmas cracker to Rosie, “So, you know what to do. Right?”

 

She nods gleefully, “When Sher’rock comes in, we say ‘Happy Christmas!’”

 

John smiles, “And?”

 

“Then I’ll give him a Christmas cracker!”

 

“Exactly!”

 

They hear the door close from downstairs, and the steps coming up the stairs.

 

John smiles and whispers to Rosie, “3,2,1-”

 

Sherlock opens the door to their flat and-

 

“Happy Christmas Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock looks absolutely bewildered for a few seconds and Rosie giggles at his expression.

 

“Happy Christmas, Sher’rock!” Rosie runs over to Sherlock and shoves a Christmas cracker into Sherlock’s hands.

 

Sherlock’s eyes are wide and he stares at the Christmas cracker, and then at the room that hadn't been decorated a few hours ago. He looks down at Rosie, “Th-thank you.”

 

“Well,” John grins widely, “does Sherlock want to join us in popping them?”

 

Sherlock gives John a small smile, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

 

“Yay!” Rosie ran back to the living room couch and climbed on.

 

John watches as Sherlock gives Rosie a wide smile and follows her to the couch. John pulls up a chair next to the sofa.

 

“Sher’rock, you know how to pop a Christmas cracker, right?”

 

“It’s been a while, but I’m sure I can remember it.”

 

Rosie smiles and gives one side of the cracker to Sherlock.

“Alright!” John exclaims, “on the count of five!”

 

“Oooh, ooh, can I do it, Daddy?”

 

John smiles. “Of course you can, Rosie.” He’s pleased that Rosie’s been avidly learning her numbers; and that Sherlock has been just as avidly teaching her.

 

“One, two, three, four, five!”

 

Rosie and Sherlock pull on each side, and John can tell that Sherlock lets Rosie get the larger half.

 

“Yay!” Rosie opens the cracker and takes the piece of paper, “Ah, Sher’rock? Could you read this for me, please?”

 

Sherlock takes the piece of paper from Rosie and groans.

 

John laughs, “What is it?”

 

Sherlock groans again, “Why was King Arthur’s army too tired to fight?”

 

Rosie jumps up, “Why?”

 

“It had too many sleepless _knights_.”

 

John chuckles and Rosie giggles, “Oh, that was awful.”

 

Rosie picks up the oversized tissue paper crown and places it on her head, “Daddy, Daddy, it’s you and Sher’rocks turn!”

 

“Alright, alright,” John says, and he grabs his own dotted green, and gives Sherlock a dotted blue one.

 

Sherlock raises his eyebrow, “We’re doing two at the same time?”

 

“Exactly!”

 

John grabs Sherlock’s cracker with different his right hand, and with Sherlock, he pulls.

 

“Yes!” John holds each longer side up triumphantly.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and John pushes Sherlock playfully, “Hey! I can gloat!”

 

Sherlock gives him a smirk, “You're not going to be gloating by tonight, when I give you a good-”

 

John goes beet red, “Sherlock!”

 

Rosie looks at them both in confusion, “What is it?”

 

“Nothing, nothing,” John’s glares at Sherlock, “Sherlock’s just being silly.”

 

That seems to be an explanation enough for Rosie and she grabs one of the tissue paper crowns and hands it to Sherlock. Sherlock puts it on his head, “Is Daddy going to put on his tissue paper hat too?”

 

“Oh yeah, right!” John grabbed his green crown and balanced it on his head, “do you wanna do jokes again?”

 

Sherlock groans, “Absolutely not. Reading those were borderline torturous.”

 

John rolled his eyes, “Yes, of course, they were.”

 

\----------------------

 

John quietly sneaks down from Rosie’s room upstairs and joins Sherlock in the living room again. He sits down on his chair and takes the cup of mulled cider that Sherlock offers him from his spot in front of the window.

 

“Hey, Sherlock?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Thank you-" John pauses and smiles, "thank you for making Rosie’s Christmas fun this year. I know you haven’t celebrated for a long time, but she really enjoyed it.”

 

He shrugs, “It was the least I could do. For her, and for you.”

 

Love runs over John like a wave and he beams at Sherlock. He sets down his cider down on the table, and takes Sherlock’s left hand and kisses the red soulmate mark on Sherlock’s forefinger.

 

“I love you.”

 

It’s a rare happening, John saying that little three-word phrase. He’s only said it once before, and he knows that Sherlock knows because he immediately stills. John is momentarily worried, but then Sherlock just smiles.

 

He takes John’s left hand and holds it right over his heart, “I love you too, John Watson. Forever and always.”

 

John smiles at the gesture and for a moment he remembers a wisp of ginger hair, an American accent, a pale face, and a lanky body.

 

But he lets go of it because he's got the real person before him; no longer just a memory far away in Afghanistan.

 

He presses Sherlock closer to him and kisses him again.

 

And right outside, the city at night is active and alight.

 

**THE END**

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Spacing errors from Dreamwidth have been fixed.


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